“Liar!” retorted Hyacinth, with the directness of speech that is not merely excusable, but almost obligatory, in the political profession; “the votes aren’t counted yet. You won’t gammon me as to the result, either. A boy that I’ve palled with is going to fire a gun when the poll is declared; two shots if we’ve won, one shot if we haven’t.”

The situation began to look critical. “Drug the sow,” whispered Hyacinth’s father.

Someone went off in the motor to the nearest chemist’s shop and returned presently with two large pieces of bread, liberally dosed with narcotic. The bread was thrown deftly and unostentatiously into the stye, but Hyacinth saw through the manoeuvre. He set up a piercing imitation of a small pig in Purgatory, and the infuriated mother ramped round and round the stye; the pieces of bread were trampled into slush.

At any moment now the poll might be declared. Jutterly flew back to the Town Hall, where the votes were being counted. His agent met him with a smile of hope.